


Get down on your knees and tell me you love me

by narcissisticSpaghetti



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Gen, Karaoke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissisticSpaghetti/pseuds/narcissisticSpaghetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title is the name of an All Time Low song, I just kind of thought it fit Tavros's relationship with Vriska in a fashion I could work with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get down on your knees and tell me you love me

It wasn’t really rare that you watched some poor shmuck waltz his way in and order something strong. It was a fairly common occurrence to see someone in here looking miserable. It was one of those underground bars in that somewhat ratty part of town, every town has them.

There was cheap beer, a high drink limit and karaoke. Karaoke was kind of a rare thing these days, but at least every thursday night was entertaining for some measure of time.

This Thursday promised to be a slow night, with very few people getting up on stage. Of course ol’ Joebob was there, though you could barely make out the words he was slurring. You really weren’t sure what his name was, he never told you; but he’s been in here almost nightly for two and a half years. He’s friendly enough and at least he doesn’t stink.

You catch Ampora’s eye in your periphery and quickly look away again. You’re not sure why he’s in here so often either. You don’t know him well but you know his name because he’s your best friend's other best friend’s douchbag older brother.

He has one of his constant cigarettes in his mouth. He never smokes them, not even when you catch him in the alley out back after your shift. He just absently chews on the end and breathes through it like a straw, it’s a little creepy. But you’re used to creepy. Your father and brother kind of cured you of any fears when you were little.

Your first indication that someone had entered the facility was the sound of a car rushing past just outside the door, much louder than the usual muffled rumbling you heard when it was closed. You looked up just in time to see him come in, short dark hair that looked recently mussed. He was wearing a really stupidly tacky argyle sweatervest and dark brown loafers, with khaki pants that looked surprisingly big on him.

Or maybe it was that he just seemed so small.

You saw him take a look around as he held the door partially open, and his eyes widened when he noticed someone singing. You guess he wasn’t expecting it to be karaoke night. He hesitated in the doorway, long enough to tell you he was considering just turning around and walking out.

You were actually kind of glad when he bit his lip and shut the door behind himself, and wandered over to the bar where you stood with a drink half finished in your hand.

You watched him curiously as he struggled to get his ass onto the admittedly tall barstool and gathered his wits. You poured out the drink you were making into the appropriate glass receptacle and sidled over, trying to smile as warmly as you could.

“Can I get you anything?” You ask him as softly as you can, trying not to startle him.

It doesn’t work, he still jumps perhaps an inch and a half at your words before fumbling to reply to you. “Uh, y-yes, please?”

You wait for a moment for him to order something but he doesn't seem to understand. “What sort of miracle can I hook a brother up with tonight, hmm?” You prompt him.

“Oh, oops.” He looks away sheepishly and you can see the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks. “I really don’t know. I’ve never really drank any alcohol.” He admits.

“That’s alright. We got plenty of water, and even some juices. We got Orange, Cranberry, Apple and Ginger ale.” You see his face light up just a little from that dejected little frown he had been wearing and your heart flutters.

“I would like some ginger ale, please then.” He tells you with only a very faint stutter on the G. You nod and turn away, glancing at Ampora across the room.

You know very well he’s got his eyes on the new kid, sizing him up like some dessert or a pet at the pound. You also know very well that he is very very likely to make a move, and for some reason you care more than you usually do.

When you get back he is eying the couple currently singing, two girls wrapped around each other and giggling as they try and gasp out the words of a Brittany Spears song. “Did you want to go up there?” You ask and he again gets flustered.

“Uhm, I don’t think so, I’m not really any good.” His face looks torn though, and you can tell he really wants to.

“Oh don’t gimme that. Neither is half the people who do get up there, But that doesn’t phase them. It’s therapeutic, really.”

He glances at you and you smile again, handing him his glass of ginger ale and a small slip of paper. It had a number on it, number 80, and he grimaced for some reason. “What’s this?” He almost snapped.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble brother, that’s just the next number in like for the mic.” You point at two others in the room. “You see? That’s number 77 and 78, that’s number 79 and you would be 80. If you take the slip you got a spot on the mic. Simple. And Strider over there can play just about anything for ya.”

You gesture vaguely at the blond near the stage, fiddling absently with his computer and talking over his shoulder to the dark haired boy who followed him in here nearly every night. John, you think. You remember that he has a girlfriend but you’re not sure you remember her name. Something with a D. You really don’t care though. He just talked to you about her a lot when Strider was too busy to deal with him.

“Oh. Well I will consider it,” But you can see it in his eyes he’s going too. He just has that feel about him you see sometimes, a person comes in here with their mind set on starting over. On feeling powerful and free for the first time in too long.

“I bet you have a better voice than you give yourself credit for, brother.” You wink as you walk back down the bar to get drinks for the couple of girls who had just got off the stage and staggered back over. One of them looks drunk off her ass, the other not far behind, and the first one is eying you appreciatively.

“Can I get your number?” She asks and her companion giggles in this ridiculously squeaky voice.

“No, I don’t give out my number.” You say calmly. You get that a lot, especially in here. You used to be flattered, but over the course of the past year you kind of developed an immunity.

She looks quite disappointed, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but she seems to be distracted easily enough when you slip their check across the bar. “You’ve both hit your limit for tonight, I need you to pay soon.” You tell them calmly. The total on the bottom of the slip of paper reads “$27.46” for the seven drinks and the order of fries they had bought that night.

“But that’s ridiculous!” The second girl complains. “That’s almost thirty dollars!”

“Seven drinks, each anywhere from 3 to 4 dollars and change, you girls have expensive tastes. And that order of fries, which was $2.50 if you didn’t remember.” You are used to this sort of harassment, people will beg and plead in order to get out of paying.

You really aren’t surprised when Ampora sidles over and offers to pay for their tab, he tries to put the moves on them and they both end up giggling. He’s cute, you suppose, but you never really cared much about him. He’s just always kinda been there.

He ends up paying for almost all of their tab, the two girls pitch in about five bucks, and he walks them out the door. Just before the door slams shut behind him you catch him winking at you.

The short boy in the corner seems to be only halfway through his drink, and you feel oddly drawn to him, desperate to find out what has him so dejected. Why he feels so small, even though you’re certain he’s at least five four. People usually feel small to you at six three but this boy just, seems to fade away. Hunched in on himself whenever anyone walks behind him, seemingly terrified of the smallest sound. He grimaces when the next man gets up on stage and begins to sing something Diane Warren. You’re actually almost certain he’s going to cry.

“What’s got a motherfucker’s lips quivering, hmm?” You ask, as quietly as you can while still being heard.

“This was, our song.” He mumbles, and you smile encouragingly.

“I’m guessing you just had a pretty awful break-up, eh?”

He nods and you bite your lip in thought. And then you smile your widest, friendliest smile and ask him “So what song is a motherfucker gonna up and sing when his turn rolls about, eh?”

He actually grins back, a sad pathetic excuse for a smile but a smile nonetheless. “That’s a surprise.” His voice cracks on the second syllable of ‘surprise’ but it still warms your heart to see him try.

“Then I can’t motherfucking wait, it sounds like you’re almost up.”

His smile falters, but he put it back in place and adds a layer of determination, and you realize you really, really love his smile.

You have two other people to serve, so you refill his glass and get a move on. And the entire time your heart feels fluttery and you really don’t know quite what to do with yourself. You narrowly miss over pouring a man’s drink and you very nearly knock over a stack of glasses, and you realize just how distracted you are.

It’s ridiculously embarrassing, to think that Gamzee Makara is distracted over a boy. A poor, pathetic little excuse for a boy, impeccably clean shell yet ratty inside, and distractedly distressed in his own right. But here you are, over-washing a glass because he’s smiling at you again.

Six minutes and twenty-one seconds after you walked away (you weren’t counting, that’s what your watch says) slot number 80 is called and he grimaces again but gets up. He gets up and you knew he would.

He walks over to the stage and looks out at the room and suddenly doesn’t look as confidant, and he looks to you for help.

You gesture over to Strider in the corner, and he nods, his face lighting up with understanding and while he walks over to the little sound booth you have to smile. Everything about him makes you smile. You find yourself wondering what his name is.

Strider smiles, actually smiles (albeit a sad one,) when the boy tells him what song to play, but he dutifully finds the track and send him back on stage. And when you hear the music start you suddenly frown because you immediately recognize it.

 

I've been played a fool four, three, too many times and

When did lust for you become an organized crime?

I tried to keep you honest, babe, but I was just a pawn

You played the part so well, it hurts to know you're gone

 

Oh, so that’s what had him so dejected. That’s terrible. Whoever she was had to have been completely terrible to have him sing this with as much passion as he is throwing into the words.

It sounds like him, watching his face as he sings along you can clearly see all the pain he is expressing.

 

Let me count the ways; I six, seven, ate my words

Right from your silver plate, we checked in, checked out, checkmate

I couldn't keep you honest, babe, 'cause I was just a card you played

The draw so well, it hurts to know you're gone, you're gone, you're gone

  
  


She sounds just as terrible as the woman that had John sobbing almost a year ago, who slept with seven other guys right under his nose and didn’t tell him until the day she broke up with him for a fashion student. He had brooded and sobbed for nearly a month.

 

Did you mean it? Could you feel it when you broke into my head?

Did you fake it just to break another stranger in your bed?

Was it worth it? Was it perfect when you up and left me cynical?

Like you planned it, you're a bandit.

Just a no good, two-bit, filthy, rotten criminal.

  
  


Whoever this woman is, you feel you want to punch her for destroying such a seemingly sweet boy. There are tears in his eyes and he looks ready to collapse as he dredges up memories of whatever she did. But his voice stays strong and you can’t help but admire the absolute passion he pours into his performance.

He sounds terrible, off-key every few words and he gasps too loud when he takes a breath, but it doesn’t matter because he has his audience captivated. His energy and drive has the entire room almost pulsing with his voice.

 

Did you mean it? Could you feel it when you broke into my head?

Did you fake it just to break another stranger in your bed?

Was it worth it? Was it perfect when you up and left me cynical?

Like you planned it, you're a bandit.

Just a no good, two-bit, filthy, rotten criminal.

  
  


When he’s done, he waits patiently for the music to stop, takes a deep breath, and then carefully sets the microphone back on the stand. The entire club is silent until he starts to walk away, and then everyone starts shouting and cheering and it’s adorable just how red his face gets. He comes up to the bar and asks for another Ginger Ale, and you tell him he’s on the house tonight.

He only gets the one refill, and he smiles thankfully. And he leaves with barely a word.

But he left his phone number on a napkin.


End file.
